Between the Field and the Firelight

 

August is a strange and beautiful threshold.

The sun still burns with heat and humidity, the insects chirping their way through the early evening, singing a screeching melody of unpleasant sound.

Dusk comes a little earlier now and settles in its home just southwest of my farm. And the air feels different.

It shifts—especially toward twilight.

It’s patient—the kind of air that seems to pause between breaths.

Still humid, still thick, yet brushed with a murky coolness that hints at change.

People wait for the first fallen leaf like it’s a signal, a quiet permission to welcome spice and firelight.

Autumn makes us wait.

The threshold teases us, holds us just long enough to remind us that nature unravels in its own time—not ours.

I wait patiently, knowing the trees will shed their skin, the leaves dying a most glorious death.

It happens quickly.

Nature grants us no mercy, no time to linger.

Autumn arrives like a sigh and vanishes just the same.

It’s a sad and enchanting hour—this threshold between the end of summer and the beginning of autumn—that changes us.

We anticipate cooler nights, a fire in the fireplace.

And as I live, I love to live by candlelight—to read, write, and reflect.

I’m patiently waiting for the chance to sit outside and look out across the field with a good book, reflecting, reading, or simply dreaming.

(photo courtesy of Victoria Magazine) 

Listening to the crickets chirp their melodic songs that lull me to sleep.

These are sounds and feelings I cannot explain—it’s the mystery of it all.

I wait… patiently.